


Stripped Down to Words

by RenderedReversed



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cute, DID YOU GET THAT, Gen, Harry is a dork..., Harry too I guess, M/M, Online Friendship, Online Roleplaying, PRE SLASH TMR/HP, PRESLASH!!, a lot of cute, and so does Cedric (online), beware of emoticons C;, book adapted into movie, but a cute one imo, clearly I have too much fun with tags, famous actor!Tom, modern day AU, no magic, other than lack of slash, suddenly famous author!Harry, there's no hawt slash but Tom thinks about it, there's nothing sad about this fic, you see where I'm going with this??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-16 22:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1364638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenderedReversed/pseuds/RenderedReversed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>...But all of my denials are blown away as he walks in, looking every bit right at home here… His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as my vision is stuck on blue, I'm left completely, utterly breathless...</i>
</p><p>Or, in which Harry steps outside his comfort zone to write a thrilling romance with a cheesy title, Tom is an actor chosen to play in the upcoming film adaption, and it's a shame that they're not in love, otherwise it'd make a kind of sweet love story. </p><p>A threeshot filled with misses, hits, but mostly misses--and the one time they score the same sweet spot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter I

»  **S** _tripped_   **D** _own_   _to_   **W** _ords_  «

… SDTW Forums ►Interactive ►Roleplaying ►Full ►Invitational

… ► **Café Rendezvous**  by  _ForeverYoung_

**ForeverYoung:**

Rules: …

Background: …

RPers & Roles: …

Note: There is obviously M/M (slash) because I invited Evan & Marvolo… and no, I  _didn't_  just make this RP to stalk them and their hawt virtual relationship.  _That_ , my friends, would be creepy. ;)

 **ForeverYoung:**  Reserved.

 **ForeverYoung:**  Reserved.

…

**PheonixRising:**

Evan James

…

 _It's disgruntling how_ normal _this day—night—is going. There aren't any stumbling drunkards from the bar a few blocks away, no raging male or woman as they catch their significant other with another date… passionate embraces haven't even started yet—far too early, and that sounded a bit too like a romance novel for personal comfort._

_..._

_It's not like I want something to happen today, with a certain someone, who I still don't have the number of (thank you very much Jean for the reminder)!_

_The hours pass slowly, people buying their drinks and drinks for others, laughing and conversing at the bar as they flirted freely for fun or for deeper reasons. I vaguely pay attention. All of my co-workers have said that I've really gotten the hang of multitasking while listening, and I guess that's sort of an accomplishment. Useful._

_The door to the club opens again, and it's certainly not because it's about time that_ he  _comes_   _that I raise my head to look, even though I hadn't before for the last dozen or so customers._

 _But all of my denials are blown away as_ he _walks in, button up shirt undone for the first two buttons, a casual blazer on top, looking every bit right at home here. His hair is still neat and perfect, despite what that I know for a fact that it's windy outside. His eyes don't look around the club at all—no, they go straight for me and as I see blue, I'm left completely breathless._

…

**VolDeMort:**

Marvolo Gaunt

 _Club_ _Rendezvous_ _could very well be the_ only  _place one could go to alone and_ stay _thus for the whole night without any disruptions. It was this quality that had drew me here the first time, as ridiculous as it sounds—seeking privacy in a public place, that is. However, sometimes it is best to step away from the comforts of home, still searching for the same relaxing atmosphere but… elsewhere._

 _And, of course, it certainly helped that there was a_ very  _fine man running the bar._

 _The smooth, jazzy tune of the playing band enveloped my senses as I strolled in. Thursday, hm? Well, it's not like_ I  _would complain. Legend has it that the best snake charmers could manipulate their snake without music, but personally,_ I _believe the charm all lied in twisting the atmosphere to satisfaction. It was simply easier to do so if the foundations were already set._

 _I didn't need to look elsewhere for my serpent, either. He was where he always was—mandatory because of his job, of course, but I doubt he'd be anywhere else_ even if _he wasn't the bartender—and it was a pleasing sight to see that he was already looking at me._

_As if he had been expecting my entrance._

_Looking right back, I can make out the slight flush of his cheeks, even in the soft lights, calling to my appeal in the subtle sort of way that all attraction begins with._

_And perhaps today was the day. The intermediary chase had taken all too long already—not that I wouldn't be willing to dedicate time to charming my slightly reluctant snake, because I certainly was—and I desired to be rewarded my rightful prize._

_Maybe a kiss, an exchange of numbers, something more…_

_With that in mind, I unhesitatingly stalked my prey._

...

* * *

"Harry, wake  _up_  already!"

He wakes up with a jolt, upper body snapping up with head whipping towards the source of the startling noise. The brown hair, brown eyes, feminine shape and hand-on-hip posture to top it all off immediately tells him who it is—his sister. Albeit not by blood, but his time and affection's good enough to make the label official (that,  _and_  the legal papers sitting somewhere in their parent's house cities away).

Well, she's not a burgular, and she's not an escaped convict either, so Harry thinks it's safe enough to yawn and rub at his eyes sleepily.

"But  _Hermione_ , it's only eight!"

" _Only?!_ " she scowls, and opens her mouth to give him the lecture of a life time (not that she hasn't already given him one the day before), but stops when she sees the laptop still open and sitting atop his bed. "It's eight in the morning," she deadpans, "and you told me to wake you up. At eight. Sharp.  _Remember_? Honestly, this is the fifth time this week that you've stayed up all night on the computer. What in the name of seven hells have you been  _doing_  on that thing?"

"Watching porn?" he answers cheekily, and receives an unhappy glare (not that any glares could be  _happy_  in the first place) with a pillow to the face.  _It must be one of the two that had fallen off during the night_ , he thinks, and he doesn't even bother to try and brace for impact because he probably deserves that soft, fluffy cushion thrown at him anyway.

"Wake up and make me breakfast," Hermione demands before sharply turning away and retreating to some other place in the house.

Harry smiles despite how pissed off his sister sounds, because he knows she'll never stay mad at him for long, and admittedly he loves spoiling her anyway, so making breakfast even though it's technically not his turn today is just fine by him. He stretches, the sheets falling away from his bare chest with no arms to hold them bundled in front of him anymore, and drudgingly moves away from his bed to go about the usual morning rituals.

By the time he gets downstairs, their respective drinks are already on the table—tea for Hermione, coffee for himself—and the stove is already hot. Eggs are set out too, so he knows his sister wants an omelet for breakfast. Harry goes through the process mechanically, mind elsewhere as it usually is according to everyone else, and his sister's quiet sips aren't loud enough to bring him back to reality either.

When he's sure the omelet is ready, he mentally checks off everything else. Bread is in the toaster, plates are set out, no dishes in the sink—as of yet—and nothing out of place. The morning's a regular morning, and Harry's just fine with that.

An hour later he's out the door, coat on because it's cold in the autumn, satchel slung over a shoulder with his laptop safely tucked away, second piece of toast wrapped in a napkin so he can eat it without getting his hands dirty while he walks to the café. There, he's greeted familiarly by a waitress—because honestly, he's known by everyone here because he's  _always_ _here_ —and he takes a seat at the same place he always does, in a booth right beside a window with a good enough view of the people walking down the street.

Harry likes it here at the Leaky Cauldron, because even though the name is a bit lackluster, it's warm and cozy and he can sit for hours idly watching the pedestrians of London as they rush to wherever they're going on the particular day. He's a laidback type of person, because he already knows that being stressed is no fun, and to be honest being a writer while you're too busy thinking about all the things you have to do later is just no good either.

He's starving, hungry for words and a story and something  _that needs to be told_ , and he's definitely thirsty too; thirsty for readers and fans and  _people_  to pick up these stories and words and be just as enraptured by them as he is… but not everyone gets what they want, and Harry knows that, and knows he has other things to be thankful for, so he's still laidback even though there are things that he still wants.

Recently, he hasn't yet been able to find that  _something_  that he wants to cling to, to grab and hold on with and unyielding grip, to scratch and claw and defend and protect. There's yet to be a story that he wants to continue, to write past the point he can see at first glance, to  _finish_ , truly and completely. Harry knows that there's no point in rushing it, so he still sits and waits at the same table, mug of coffee and occasionally plate of treacle tart by his side. His notebook's still empty, page still blank, but his pen doesn't mind.

If it was two years ago, then maybe he'd be frustrated, but because it's not, and he's already met Marvolo, he isn't bothered at all by his inability to write something down.

 _Marvolo_. Now that he's thinking about the man, Harry finds he can't quite stop. The amount of things that  _Marvolo_  is to him is…  _innumerable_. And it's sort of sad, because he doesn't know the man past the brilliantly expressive, miraculous story weaver on the net, but then again perhaps it's better that way. Through the anonymity of the Internet, they unconsciously share themselves more than they expect they're sharing, and it's  _that_ , that key detail that lets them be as free and light and  _true_  as they are.

 _Marvolo_  is only a pseudonym, of course, but so is  _Evan_. Despite that, Harry freely admits his… attachment. He gives his friend a special spot in his mind, reserved because Marvolo's a secret that isn't a  _secret_ , so to say, but rather just someone he prefers to keep all to himself.

With Marvolo, it's so incredibly easy to express himself. It hardly takes any effort at all to spin story after story, dialogue after dialogue, word after  _word_ , because Marvolo makes it easy to go with the flow. Coaxing the story to create itself isn't something Harry has to do, as long as he's with Marvolo, and that's why Harry stays up so late that it becomes early—just a few minutes, just an hour or so more, just a  _bit_  longer with his friend and indirect muse is worth it.

And it doesn't matter if Harry  _technically_  isn't Harry when they do stay up. Harry becomes Evan the bartender, or Evan the orphan. He's Evan the Earl, Evan the jealous lover, Evan the evil mastermind, Evan the best friend. To Marvolo, he becomes the father, the lover, the rival, the son, the brother, the enemy— _everything_. They're a duo, after all, and on the nights where the furious tapping of the keyboard is the only sound they can dare to make, everything else disappears except for the story.

Together, they effortlessly roleplay, and Harry can't bother to tear himself away. They write in first person, second person, third person—hell, once they tried to write as  _each other_.

There's something addicting about being whatever the situation calls for, to write on the spur of the moment as someone  _else_  influences every single word that flows from your fingers. And, though it's obvious he's probably none of the things that he plays as, Harry finds that he's written more about himself by roleplaying than he could in an autobiography.

He wonders if Marvolo feels the same way.

When he leaves the café, he hasn't gotten anything done, but Harry thinks it doesn't really matter, because he can feel it. He feels the stirring of something coming, of something that will happen soon, of something that brings change and possibly the start of the next story. His body is already tense with anticipation— _yes_ , something's going to happen soon.

Harry figures it's still perfectly fine to relax. Worrying is troublesome, after all, and if he worries too much his opportunity will slip away past his notice.

 _...Eventually_ …

* * *

The way Tom works is like how a clock works. He does things the same way over and over, not for the rhythm or the adoption of a habit that he can't get rid of, but because he knows that, in the end, it's the most efficient way to get things done. And Tom likes efficiency.

From when he wakes up to how he likes his meals and does his job, Tom has worked everything out so it all works well together. He knows himself better than most people can claim about themselves, so he's confident that his way is  _the_  way, at least when it's about himself. So he works like a machine: deft, nimble, consistent…  _precise_.

And this is why all the directors he works with love him. This is why many of his co-workers envy him. This is why he's on top.

Because in the film industry, where things are hectic and unexpected obstacles are all part of the job, someone with a steady pace like Tom is gold. And he knows. He  _always_  does.

So when he wakes up still tired with a slight ache all over because of whatever position he fell asleep in, Tom ignores it—as per usual—and doesn't bother lazing around in bed. He can't afford it, and he needs his breakfast and coffee before he kills his manager and takes a vacation.

Actors don't  _get_  vacations. Not like those in the office can. Tom can't schedule a week off because he has enough hours and the work has been slow—no, he always has to get himself out there, keep the eyes on him, make sure no one is able to wrestle away the throne he sits upon. There's no real rest, and that's why he thrives in this type of environment.

As he sips his coffee and eats his eggs, he wonders what would have happened had he not given up writing.

Though, saying he had "given up" is incorrect. Tom doesn't like messing up his terms or butchering his meaning—well, occasionally he does but that's completely on purpose, and only when he has all the cards in his hand—not only is it amateur, it's  _inefficient_. So Tom mentally corrects himself, because he hasn't stopped writing.

Technically.

In fact, he tries to write every night, though sometimes it's an impossibility due to his schedule. He doesn't write to keep up the practice, doesn't write because it's lethargic, and Tom certainly doesn't do it because he's holding out and waiting until he can switch careers. No, he writes for Evan.

And that was the key difference between who he was then, and who he is now.

Tom admits he doesn't know Evan that well. Well, he does, but not in the usual way. He doesn't know Evan's favorite color, doesn't know his favorite kind of food, doesn't know what he does for a living and doesn't know his preferred hobby—though he can assume it's writing.

Tom doesn't know Evan that way. After all, the only way they communicate is online. He doubts Evan's even had a passing thought in sharing all of that information with him. But there's something about the man—so he assumes it to be—that's utterly fascinating. Something that he can't pull away from. The way Evan writes makes him pause mid-paragraph, because he _needs_  that moment to admire the way all of his thoughts were blown away to leave only the story. But Tom doesn't even want to stop; he wants to read to the end and  _then_  give Evan his due praise, but it takes awhile for his mind to catch up and by that time he's already taken his pause.

Evan writes like he's breathing, and his breath touches every word, every letter that he spins, gifting life and even a bit more to it. And it's not even about his writing style or how he uses his technical skills. No, it's because when Evan  _really_  gets going, Tom can catch a glimpse of who's behind the words, who's writing and who's begging for the story to be passed on.

It's wonderful and it's scary and Tom's hopelessly addicted.

But it only happens when Evan's really got something. Otherwise, the writing is certainly  _good_ , but not awe-inspiring. Tom doesn't mind either way, because while half of him is captured by the story they're making, the other half is consume with  _his part_.  _His role_. It was like acting, except with words on a page and to be honest, Tom feels like he found his place there. Because it isn't a job or seen by the professionals in the field, he can fully immerse himself in what he's doing instead of worrying about… the extra.

And it's perfect.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**T** hey meet in a coffee shop.

It's not the usual one that Harry visits, nor is it the one recommended by Tom's manager, but by one little whim of fate they end up next to the other in a rather long line, and that's all that needs to be done. Because the first meeting is  _always_  thoughtless, always a mystery, always something to look back on and wonder how it  _works_. How it  _had_  worked.

And it's no different for Harry and Tom.

Harry gets his drink with minimal problems, and so does Tom. They unknowingly wait beside each other before then, and when they both fetch their respective doses of caffeine, it's only to turn around and see a full house with hardly a seat left. Or, well, more like  _one table._

They both move in the same direction, and only realize it a second afterwards that they're probably heading to the same table. Harry frowns because he just  _knew_  he should've gone to his usual place, where the coffee isn't as good but at least there's not as many patrons so it's nice and easy and the chatter is soothing instead of excessive. Tom scowls because he was given time for a break, a  _real_  break, not one of those fifteen minute runs where people rush to get him what he needs before there's no time to consume or use said items, and now he can't sit in one place at his leisure.

They both move towards the door to leave and allow the other the spot, but again realize what each other is doing and finally turn to look at each other.

"You can have it," Harry offers, "I'll just run down to my usual place. At least it's a bit roomier there."

"It's fine," Tom waves off, because he never likes owing people things, "I have to go back to work in an hour anyway. There's a couple things I need to get done beforehand as well, so the table is yours."

But as much as they want the table, they're also completely open to letting the other have it with minimal argument, and it sort of leaves them in an awkward state of waiting for the other to say a quick "thank you" before taking the offer and bidding goodbye. Each expecting the same thing, it doesn't happen.

"We could share, if you like…? I just wanted a spot to drink my coffee."

Harry is the one to offer again, and Tom is the one to accept it.

They sit down, and it's sort of odd because they're both strangers with a shared idea and desire, but eventually it's their respective drink that calms them, and then the awkward atmosphere is only because they both completely missed the chance to ask for the other's name—out of politeness, of course. Even if they're not looking for conversation, it's rude to ignore the other person, especially when sharing, so most could say it's expected when Harry bites his lip and Tom glances at the shop instead of the person across from him.

Tom is, though somewhat uncomfortable in his realization, accepting of the fact that he'll consume his caffeine in this strange situation, since he'll probably never see the other man again, and the whole day would just be another tick off the list. He chooses not to make conversation, and neither does Harry.

When they finish wasting away a good amount of time, Tom stands first, because he needs to get back to work and it's rude, insulting and most of all  _inefficient_  to be late, so it proves simple logic to be the first to leave.

Harry debates, and nibbles on his lip in that odd habit he can never find it in himself to break, even though it's given him split lips and exasperated looks from Hermione before. Tom's walking away from the table by the time he can bring himself to say, "I'm Harry Potter," in a soft, unimposing tone, which he hopes deep down that it'll drown in the noise of the shop so the stranger he shared a table with doesn't hear.

But Tom has always had sharp hearing, and so he turns his head to look behind his shoulder with the corner of his eye and says, clearer though still in no attempt to be heard over the rowdy din, "Tom Riddle." And then he walks away and nothing mildly interesting at all happens the rest of the day.

But back at the hotel when it's late and he's just finished his usual shower after work, Tom thinks back and wonders why he even chose to give his real name. His stage name is William Ferrin, and though it can be argued that he didn't say such to a stranger because obviously that would attract attention he didn't want or need, he hasn't used his real name in awhile. _And_ , though he didn't particularly care for it, the truth is some sort of sacred to him like a private memory that people think back on every ten or so years that they've never told anyone about—not on purpose, but just because it turned out that way, and, well, they continue the trend because it had slowly become something personal to them.

It's the name his mother gave him, after all—a woman who he held no affection or loathing for. He doesn't know his father, didn't bother to search him up even though they shared birth names, and isn't going to start now.

"Harry Potter," Tom murmurs, just to try it out and get a feel for how it rolls off the tongue. He doesn't know why his brain bothered to remember it, and he doesn't get a feeling like it's particularly important at all. It's unfamiliar, so probably isn't something he's heard in his industry, and therefore most likely not worth his time or effort.

But the name sticks, impossibly so, sitting at the back of his mind because it just has that  _sound_  to it. Harry Potter isn't an  _uncommon_  name, not in the least, but there is something…

Some quality of it, Tom supposes, that makes such a name so ordinary, so unspectacular, so  _inconspicuous_  that, when combined with the stranger who he had met earlier that day, something  _memorable._

Tom gives credit where credit is due. The man was decent looking, perhaps with a bit more effort could look as imposing as an actor on screen, and that is as big of a compliment he's willing to give. But he's always been good at observing people, and Tom knows that even if he's not thinking about it, there was probably some physical aspect of the man that gave  _some_ sort of impression on his mind. Perhaps—perhaps it was his eyes.

_Green—a striking jade that was nothing like the cold and hard stone except for unpredictability of color._

There's always a story in jade. A story of nothing, a story of  _something_. And maybe that's the connection of Harry Potter—everyone has a story, but this man in question has eyes that hint at a particularly interesting one. That's all. That's it. Mystery solved.

Tom goes to sleep content, pictures blurring and smudging into words fluttering beneath his eyelids, teasing with their fairy touch to disappear in the morning.

… _And I'm left completely, utterly breathless…_

* * *

 **I** t's strange how things work out. For Tom, life goes on. For Harry, well, he's hit with the biggest burst of inspiration that he's ever had, and his world stops as he spends day and night almost  _obsessively_  ironing out the details and putting together some sort of skeleton and plan. He knows he has a good one in his hand, ready to be sculpted so beautifully and brought to life that he's shaking in anticipation.

He knows this feeling. It's familiar and warm and comforting, like a big broken-in sweater worn during the winter as you snuggle up with a blanket and a warm cup of tea. It's the best feeling in the world, or  _will be_ , and Harry's determined to feel that satisfaction, so he salts his street and cleans the snow off his driveway, all because he knows that he'll  _eventually_  make it back inside—that he'll  _deserve_  that warm, swelling contentment.

Meanwhile, Tom finishes up the last season for his drama and continues to enlarge the gap between himself and mortal man. He gets his awards, makes his speech, smiles, and puts himself  _out there_  for public scrutiny. His manager is pleased; Tom's on top and it doesn't look like he'll be falling anytime soon.

You could say that fate  _smirked_  the second Harry's book is published, five years after the idea first came to him. It's clear foreshadowing, anyone familiar with how books go can tell  _that much_ , but Harry doesn't notice, because he's exhausted everything he could and now just wants to  _sleep_  and let the story of Voletta do the work for him. It's not that he's lazy, it's just that he's given everything he can and then some, breathed life and passion and all of his insecurities and confidences into this piece, and now he's  _done_.

But all of the credit can't go to only himself, Harry thinks, and knows it's true. It was Marvolo, who helped him more than the man could ever know, just by being who he is. It was the late nights of RPing, of swapping things around, of trying something  _new_  that kept him going, and allowed him to just  _let go_ as he pleased. It's brilliant and fantastic and just  _awe-inspiring_ what Marvolo could make him do sometimes, and he wishes, almost  _prays_  that the man would find his book at some point in his life, and notice.

But Harry knows that even though his book is a hit and he's getting interview requests left and right and down center, that the chances of Marvolo ever discovering the truth are slim to none. For one, his book isn't even in his usual genre of literature, not that the man would know  _but still_ , the writing style  _had_  to feel different, right?—romance, instead of action and sci-fi and all of the things that Harry actually reads himself—and even though they themselves have dipped into romance often, steamy or angsty or  _younameit_ , something published is _different_.

Because Harry can't give one hundred percent of himself into a reflection of the protagonist. He can't hand over his heart and mind to Voletta so straightforwardly as he does with Evan. He  _can't_. And that's why everyone else in the whole damned world served to be his muse for her instead.

But, as every statistician in the world would have claimed it never to be, chance  _does_ happen.

* * *

 **A**  year after the book's release, Tom sits in his penthouse, cold coffee on his side table as he relaxes on his couch to crack open a novel.

It's not for leisure. Acting is more than memorizing a few lines and reciting them in front of a camera. There's methodical thought and passion behind it—hard work and  _focus_  required to be successful. He's accepted a role for the upcoming, much to be looked forward to movie,  _Voletta_ , based on and, through a very strict contract,  _to follow as close as possible_  the story of the original book.

The name is different, but it's all the rage in modern culture at the moment so Tom is able to find it with ease. It's almost misleading with how cheesy the title sounds;  _Roleplay My Heart Away,_  like it was some cookie cutter romance novel for a housewife. But Tom knows it's not—he hasn't ever read a single line of it before, but he has a script and a summary from his manager, and he knows despite the title and the suspiciously simple cover page—black, with the faded image of a blown out candle—that it's so much more.

And it is.

Voletta is a woman in her prime—dare say it if she is anything but. She's sassy and coy and flirtatious, but she's strong and has an underlying hint of honesty beneath it all. She's a woman that fits a man—or at least in the first chapter. Then she's independent, pushing away others with an untouchable pose and an icy, beautiful gaze that no one is able to withstand. She's loud and rude, and speaks her mind whenever she pleases; hardly the ideal, but something about it calls to others anyway, as if she's  _so clearly pushing that she can't possibly be_.

And Tom reads as she transforms again.

Voletta is a deceiver. What she's like—personality, attitude, all down to the very way she smiles—is hidden behind a velvet curtain, meant to be slid aside when the show starts. She's not perfect—far from it, as he later finds out—but she's damn good at  _making everyone else_  think she's perfect. Her job is in the underworld, doing odd jobs for high pay, whether it's spying or drug dealing or  _whatever the hell_ she feels like, including assassination, she's up for hire, along with her partner Emrys, who Tom would be playing.

But he realizes it won't be easy.

It's a romance novel, so of course, Voletta falls in love. Not with an escaped convict, not with a mafia don, not with a drug lord, and certainly not with her partner himself. No, she falls in love with an ordinary man, and it's so strange and ensnaring and  _abrupt_ , in the same fashion that love just  _is_ , that Tom, who is simply a bystander and no more to the affair, is left in confusion.

But it's not  _bad_  confusion. Somehow, this author makes it all fall together like Voletta is simply  _breathing_. She's breathing, and so her breath changes depending on if she's running twenty miles per hour or leisurely out on a stroll… and somehow, she meets and falls in love with Nathaniel somewhere in between that. And the readers are pulled along, reading and helpless to stop something that they just  _know_  is going to end up  _all kinds of bad_.

Nathaniel's not part of the underworld. He's not  _part_  of  _Voletta's world_ , but he's consumed by her, consumed by her use of her feminine wiles and brilliant mind, and Tom as well as anyone else can just see how he's simply  _no match_  for her. She's a storm, a tornado, a natural disaster just passing by, raging and ethereal and something you can't help but stop and watch—and the worst part? She controls it. Every aspect of that storm is under  _her_  command. She doesn't even need to use her lust—though of course she does to great effect—and everyone is already under her spell. It's charisma at its most fearful work, and Tom recognizes it instantly for what it is.

Nathaniel is drawn in without standing a  _chance_.

Emrys watches Voletta's fall. He stands in the shadows, watching his companion's descent like it's nothing but the daily news, and though Tom knows he can pull off the apathy, it's  _not enough_. It's not just apathy, because Emrys has been there with Voletta since the beginning. He's there beside her when she pulls her first trigger and it hits, he's there when she makes her first fatal mistake, and he's  _there_  when she's at the top, completely unaffected by what holds everyone else in place.

And he cares for her, when he's in a world where caring could get you killed  _or worse_. He cares and he trusts and that's why they work so well together. Emrys and Voletta, Voletta and Emrys. They're not brother and sister or lover and lover, but it's some odd mix in between, something  _more_  but  _not in that way_ , and their equality despite all exterior influences is surprising. They mix well, the stagnant mountain and the ever-changing storm.

And Tom feels a yearning pull at his heart.

But it's why Tom doesn't understand how Emrys can stand by and watch, if he cares so much. Of course there are the verbal warnings which Voletta ignores, but her partner does nothing more. Tom can't for the life of him understand  _why_. He doesn't think he can pull off something that looks, at first glance, just like half-assed effort.

And then it's like watching the guillotine descend. Nathaniel, drowning in Voletta, enters her world. It's inevitable and what's been expected from the minute he was caught. It's his downfall, and Voletta's as well as she desperately reveals who she is in truth, all in an attempt to keep him with her. And Tom  _knows_. The story is sounding eerily familiar at this point.

She's a murderer and she's a spy, she's a woman that's  _more_  than a man. She's brilliant, she always succeeds—must, because it's part of the job and the personality and the illusory _perfection_ —, she's the type of person that  _failure avoids_. And she loves him, so much so that everything that she is… is nothing.

Tom can understand. He knows not all love is the same, and he knows this author, whoever the hell it is, knows so too. Not all love is pathetic, as desperate, as all uncompassing as Voletta's. It could be awkward and ordinary like Nathaniel's. It could be quiet and heartfelt like Emry's. But it's  _because_  she is so amazing that love takes it all away. She throws herself single-mindedly into what she does, and uses just the same tactic with love, much to her downfall. She is so  _above_ , that she cannot possibly love without being  _pulled down_. To Nathaniel.

And Nathaniel rejects her. And leaves. And Voletta lets him.

Emrys is the one to end it. He cannot leave Nathaniel alive with the knowledge that he has, and kills him. Voletta, distraught, plans her betrayal with such calm and serenity that it's almost impossible to believe her lover died. Her planning is meticulous, everything considered, everything requiring  _perfection_ , because Emrys is no amateur and if there's  _one mistake_ , he'll catch it. Especially if it's hers. And because Voletta is a deceiver by nature, a wild card, a  _true_  blank canvas, she plays her own part in a hundredth centimeter of uncertainty. She laughs, she cries, she converses,  _all_  with Emrys, acting like nothing is wrong, even when she's drunk as fuck and completely out of it in one of the most nerve wrecking scenes of the book.

It's terrible and frightening and Tom can't help but respect the woman, fictional as she may be. From his upbringing he can recognize how much it takes, to live every moment  _planning_  and _performing_ , to executing something so brilliantly sane many mistake it for insanity. He's climbed from the bottom,  _literally_  from the slums, and Voletta's actions remind him of his own.

But it's Emrys that wins, because while Voletta is the storm,  _he_  is the mountain. He withstands the immediate wind, lightning,  _rage_ , and he  _knows_  her like the back of his hand. It's such utter mind fuck that Tom is captivated when, right after Voletta is caught after her stereotypical villainous rant (that includes several casual apologies, but oh, it's  _really_  what she has to do, in memory of Nathaniel,  _her_  Nathaniel, and her partner would understand, right? They had that sort of relationship, certainly),  _Emrys_  proceeds to explain in great detail how  _he_  plotted _her_  death, each major point defeating one of her own, canceling it out, utterly  _nullifying_  whatever she did.

He gives her a merciless death, just as  _his partner_  should receive. That is everything his affection for her can gift.

Tom wonders how the hell he can pull it off,  _how_  will he pull it off. Then he snorts and shakes his head, because whoever the actress playing Voletta is… well, she'll be in for it.

Because even though it's not his script, the book is  _the_ book, and the author wants to preserve it as much as possible. Tom can see why. He'd want to too—it's nudging close somewhere in his chest to his heart, as if to search for some hidden memory within the deep recesses. So instead of first taking inspiration from what he reads, what he  _will_  read at the actor's reading, he tries to find himself in the novel, searching for who Emrys really is by using whatever is said and left  _unsaid_.

He wants to do it justice, and he realizes with a sudden revelation at 3 AM four cups of coffee in, that this time it wasn't about his pride as an actor. It wasn't about the fact that this was his  _job_. And he looks back at the book again, flips it open to a random page, and reads a paragraph.

The writing is familiar, but Tom can't place a name, or even a finger to  _where_  he first read it.

He stays up until morning, mind on Voletta, Nathaniel, Emrys… and the mysterious author.

* * *

 **I** t comes to him one night when he's just finished a round of RPing with Evan, and they're just chatting and joking around and right then and there, half between a sentence and half a centimeter away from pressing a comma, it hits him.

Tom thinks it was more like a slap to the face.

 _Evan_. It's  _Evan's_  handwriting, the beautiful prose that spills out of his cursor when his friend  _really_  got going, and Tom almost laughs because he hadn't recognized it earlier. It's stupid and ridiculous and  _how_ — _how_ could he not figure out that it was  _Evan_?!

But maybe he isn't stupid and… late. Tom wants to confirm it, so he asks Evan straight up and, when the strings of periods signal an abnormally long ellipsis as well as hesitation from the other, it's a bit obvious.

The  _Yeah. O_O_   _how'd you know?_  is really just for his ego.

 **VolDeMort:** I recognized your writing style. Didn't realize you were published at first, so was confused.

 **PheonixRising:**  …Oh xD. I thought you saw the dedication.

 **PheonixRising:**  Uh, forget what I just mentioned. Sorry.

 **VolDeMort:**  What? What does that have to do with it?

 **PheonixRising:**  x_x… forget it. And I swear to God if you own the book,  _don't look damn it!_  …Then again, I don't think you're the type to own romance novels anyways…

 **VolDeMort:** Seriously,  _Roleplay My Heart Away_? What kind of cheese were you eating when you thought of that title?

 **PheonixRising:**   _Shut up._

After they bid each other goodnight, Tom reaches for the book sitting on his coffee table. He flips to the very front, which he usually skips, and then flips another two blank pages to reach the  _dedications_. It's a short list, as most are, but a name catches his eye.

_For Marvolo Gaunt, for being my ultimate inspiration even if you didn't (and still don't!) know it. I wish I could have given you a happier ending—but you wouldn't have liked that, would you?_

Tom closes the book and almost smirks. He idly wonders what it'll be like, meeting Evan for the first time two days from tomorrow.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> .................Still sick ./cry
> 
> I should be posting BS&L on Ao3 next week ;~; stay tuned I guess.


	3. Chapter III (Final)

**I** t's at the actor's reading that Tom meets him. He doesn't know it's Evan when he first sees him—they never video chatted before, so naturally he has no inkling to what the man looks like—but something about his face looks familiar. Hardly enough to warrant any epiphany or hair-tugging frustration, so Tom forgets it but a second later.

Because Evan is striking. He has the most brilliant eyes, hidden behind aged glasses that really need to be replaced, with a messy mop of black hair that usually implies a  _very_  active night in bed. But his personality doesn't support that—not to mention, last night Evan was with  _him_ —so Tom hazards a guess that it's usually like that, or he's allergic to brushes or something equally ridiculous.

"Thank you for letting me be so involved in this project, director," Evan beams as he's lead over to be introduced.

"Not a problem, my boy! I do believe we should be thanking  _you_  for letting us produce it!" Albus Dumbledore smiles genially. He's old and some people say he's senile, but even Tom has to admit the too-many-greats grandfather knows how to make one hell of a movie.

Evan is introduced first with his pen name, Persepheus Hadrian Jameson—P.H. Jameson. Then, he personally introduces himself with his real name.

 _Harry Potter_.

It sounds familiar to Tom, like a warm puff of breath leaving his lips on a cold winter day. The memory flitters on the tip of his tongue, beckoning but never revealing itself. He almost tastes it—coffee, the scent of espresso, a comforting burn of a hot drink in the back of his throat—but it's so ordinary and part of his daily protocol that the mere  _idea_  that it's significant is laughable. The word 'jade' pops up in his mind, but again he pays no attention to it. It's the color of the man's eyes, after all.

But they're not cold as the stone at all. They're lively and amiable, and if the man wants to, he could probably dart off into the wilderness, assimilating into the sprites and spiritual aspect of the woodlands seamlessly. He doesn't look to be an outdoors type of person, but there's a certain  _attitude_  in the way he stands and the way he talks, the way he breathes and the way his eyes stare, that's  _freeing_. That _understands_  freedom; has swallowed the trash of oppression and helplessness and now savors and respects the liberty he now has.

Tom is observant. But even  _he_  knows every little thing he notices about  _Harry Potter_  is much too detailed for meeting a person for the first time. It's because this man, this Harry Potter is  _Evan_ ,  _his Evan_ , that he sees all this. Having a face to the name simply helps out.

" _Have we met before_?" They both blurt out the same thing, though Tom sure as hell didn't know his mouth was moving until the sound had already come out. Evan's eyes widen in surprise, he looks a little startled, but then he laughs a bit and the suspicion and oh-my-god-did-that-just-happen, this-is-so-surreal is over.

"Even though I said the same, I don't think we have," he says without missing a beat, and Tom nods in agreement.

The moment is over. It'll just be a fading memory, an oddity at the end of the day that one might think back on, but forget the next week.

The actors sit, and begin to read. Evan is quietly observing them, physically in the circle but mentally an outsider, and part of Tom wants to give in as much effort as he can; not, for once, because this is his job and he has a reputation and if he's going to do something, at the very least he'll do it  _right_ —no, he wants to put in all the effort he can to impress Evan. It's the feeling in his chest that tells him it is as it is, not his mind or his thoughts, because thinking that he's doing something for the sole purpose of impressing someone is just  _not_  what Tom Riddle, William Ferrin or other, does—the thought is taboo, but the feelings are not.

He doesn't dare look at Evan, try to read his thoughts off his face and through his eyes like some of the younger, lesser actors are doing. While it's tempting to see exactly  _what_  the author thinks of their portrayal, or at least a tentative rough draft of, they are professionals. They cannot take a bite of the apple, take a glance at the forbidden gateway. Perhaps that's too big of an exaggeration—Tom knows there's nothing wrong with observation; the author  _is_  here for a reason.

But there's something about  _doing so_  that reminds him of a classroom, of students nervously presenting at the front, eyes flickering to the teacher in hopes of encouragement or assistance. He thinks it shows a lack of confidence, so steadfastly keeps his eyes trained on his fellow actors and his script.

 _After all_ —the private thought sneaks into his mind, completely bypassing all of his professionalism in one go—he can always ask Evan later tonight what he thought of the reading.

For a second, Tom's lips twitch down. The movement is reversed in less than half a second, hardly perceptible, but it shows his distaste for being so weak as to think such a thing. Still, he despairs, it's  _Evan_ , and his friend has always been rather excellent at catching him off guard and thusly keeping him on his toes. So he lets his  _slip_ … slide.

And then it's his part, his entrance as Emrys in the fifth scene, and he reads.

* * *

**T** om wants to be like the younger, amateur actors who swarm around Evan after they're done for the day. Two women are gushing about the book, a man is asking rapid-fire questions about Evan's inspiration. There is a small circle around the author of eager listeners. It's irritating to watch, for some reason—Tom just wants to march over and tear the man away from the crowd, laying down a claim like it was his  _right_ , but obviously, he doesn't.

In fact, he doesn't get a chance to talk to  _Harry_  at all. Which is frustrating—it's their first time meeting in real life, even if his partner doesn't know it, and a large part of Tom just wants to sit down with him and have a conversation to see if he'd recognize him. It's stupid and irrational and— _fine. Whatever._

Tom takes a last glance before walking out the door with his manager. Evan doesn't see, overwhelmed by the gaggle in front of him.

 _At least there's tonight_.

* * *

**VolDeMort:** So, how did the actors' reading go?

 **PheonixRising:**  Not bad. It was nice to meet everyone—they're soooo amazing *~*… I've never seen "behind the set" before.

 **VolDeMort:**  Who did you like best?

Tom knows he's being rather shameless right now. It's not his usual style, definitely, but  _something_  inside of him plowed forward in aggression. He wanted Evan's attention— _God_  did he want it—and it makes him feel like a child, indignantly stomping his foot when someone barges into his monopoly. He needs to soothe the metaphorical beast, needs the comfort of secrecy and privacy that their relationship online represents.

At first, meeting Evan seemed like an interesting idea. Now he wonders if it's worth the trouble of dealing with  _everyone else_  who will take his partner's attention away from him.

_It's been forever since I've felt like this…_

**PheonixRising:**  Ah, you want me to  _choose_  one of them? They were all very good… still a work in progress, but I can see perfection in the future! Dumbledore really  _is_  an amazing director, choosing all these people…

Tom scowls. Not good enough.

 **VolDeMort:**  Nothing stood out to you? Really? Not with all these  _amazing_  people around you?

 **PheonixRising:**  Haha, don't tease p_q" Not all of us can be Hollywood star bigshots, you know!

The frown melts right off of Tom's face so quickly that it's almost comical. His hands freeze on the keys of his laptop, and a million thoughts barrage him at once, all relatively similar— _does he know? Did he figure it out? Holy shit, I don't remember Evan being this intuitive—_

 **PheonixRising:** I mean, I've never been around anyone famous in my entire life

 **PheonixRising:**  And here I am, sitting in a circle full of actors that've been on the big screen

 **PheonixRising:**  William Ferrin, Daphne Greengrass, Lorcan Scamander…

 **PheonixRising:**  Seriously. It was so awkward I felt like I was the odd one out—even the few rookies were sneaking glances at me like they knew I didn't belong

 **PheonixRising:**  but afterward everyone was so nice to me…. It was really overwhelming I don't know how to put it into words haha xD

 _Oh, Evan…_  Tom doesn't know whether to cry, laugh, or scoff. Only  _Evan_  would think such things— _he_  was the famous writer there, wasn't he?—and it's even more humorous because Tom was  _there_ , and could connect everything his partner is telling him to what he had previously observed.

_To even think—_

Some people are just that deluded, he supposes. Or rather, oblivious, with a  _healthy_  dose of low self-esteem. But that's what makes Evan, Evan— _maybe_ —and it's hard to imagine any other outcome, even if Tom hadn't been  _expecting_  the radically different view.

… _I'm probably going to regret this, but—_

 **VolDeMort:**  Oh? You met William Ferrin?

 **PheonixRising:**  Ohmygod _yes_. It was soooooo awesome asdfghjkl!1!1! We only talked briefly—oh, funny story about that; we both asked each other if we met before haha but  _of course_  I would've never met WILLIAM FERRIN before right? I mean—

Tom could hardly keep the grin off his face.

 **VolDeMort:**  Don't faceroll on me.

 **PheonixRising:**  Gah! But it's so hard  _not_  to! X_X

 **PheonixRising:**  Tbh I don't think the big screen does him justice

 **PheonixRising:**  He's more handsome in real life ;D

 **VolDeMort:**  Asked for his autograph on your wallet-sized photo of him then?

 **PheonixRising:**  Psssh you know it—I made sure to tell him it was invisible so he'd really sign my wallet instead.

 **PheonixRising:**  I'm going to make so much money

 **PheonixRising:**  Way more than what my books are giving me. Just for my wallet :P

 **VolDeMort** : Pics or it didn't happen.

 **PheonixRising:**  omg you did not just say that. Brb taking a screenshot of this glorious moment

At that, Tom outright  _snorts_  and chuckles under his breath. Being with Evan is  _fun_ —he idly wonders if he'll ever tell his friend the truth, and maybe they can share a good laugh and do this  _in real life_  instead of over a screen in pixilated letters. He'll have to make time in his schedule, of course, but his manager would be able to take care of that—

 **PheonixRising:**  I think I'm going to print it out and frame it in my room

It takes an iron will not to choke on his spit at that one. Tom can't help but feel a bit smug— _he's_  more important to Evan than William Ferrin is apparently, and even if they're one in the same, his friend doesn't know that. It's a silly little tidbit that makes itself at home right in the center of his chest, and a close-mouthed smile makes its way to his lips for the briefest of seconds.

There's something wrong about it, Tom's sure. But he'll ignore it.

* * *

**T** om idly wonders if he could be considered a stalker.

It's not like he's following Evan everywhere he goes, he argues with himself. But then again, most people don't stare at the person they're  _not_  stalking with a piercing, calculating gaze like Tom does. And it's not because he's jealous of the actors who stroll right up to talk to the writer with zero hesitation whatsoever— _Tom_  is the one who is Evan's precious  _Marvolo_ , after all; there's nothing that could beat that.

But it's a little bit frustrating, and a little bit awkward, and  _how come Britain's most eloquent actor_ is rendered  _without a single word to say_?

He's talked with Harry Potter, sure. A greeting here, a pleasant comment there—polite niceties that are expected and the most neutral thing a person could say in the history of  _ever_. Tom is utterly depressed by his lack of progress, but it's not like he can put the blame on anything but himself—he's not even  _trying_ , and maybe that says a little bit about himself, more than he cares to admit. Maybe that says a little bit about his relationship with Evan, and how even though he hopes, it's harder than it sounds to break a comfortable status quo.

"What's this? William  _Ferrin_  has a celebrity crush?" his manager, Severus Snape, snarks. The man is around forty, meticulous and absolutely intolerant of stupidity, able to do his job remarkably well considering how antisocial he seems—Tom wonders again if his camaraderie with his manager says something about himself.

…Is he  _seriously_  going through a mid-life crisis at the youthful age of thirty two?

 _That_  is Evan's fault, he's sure.

"If you want to go talk to him, just  _go_ ," Severus sighs, looking exasperated and Tom decides he can let the muttered  _dear God, I'm surrounded by_ children _again, didn't I escape this by quitting my teaching job?_

He almost lets slip his own  _it's not that simple_ , but at the last second controls his tongue because saying that to a man like  _Snape_  is asking for the most degrading, sarcastic comment of the year. Besides, Severus doesn't know the complexities of his relationship with Evan. Tom finds himself feeling defensive, but it can't be helped. His partner does the most  _ridiculous_  things to him, and he viciously hopes Evan has to go through the exact same things with  _him_.

Ignoring the fact that that's most likely not possible.

"Aren't you supposed to uphold my public image, or something along those lines?" Tom asks without tearing his gaze away from Evan. They're on a fifteen minute break. He counts the time in his head with startling accuracy, never once glancing at his watch.

"I hardly think talking to a  _famous_   _writer_  is going to ruin your reputation," Severus sneers, "unless you're going to act like those blubbering amateurs, but I'm sure you have more class than  _that_."

"Obviously. I'm offended the thought crossed your mind."

" _That's_  a good sign, at least."

A stretch of silence passes. They both don't move an inch.

But it's Severus who is the one to sigh,  _pointedly so_. "Are you  _really_  going to make me ask what's wrong?"

"No," Tom says, "I'm not making you do anything, other than be my manager. But you're also on a salary for that—so it's your choice whether or not you want to get paid."

"Unfortunately, part of my job  _also_  entails taking care of my actor. At least, that's what the  _contract_  says. It's as good as being paid to babysit, you know."

"Are you trying to imply something about me that I should know about, Severus?" Tom's voice is threateningly pleasant, and he knows it'll be enough to make his manager back off before the man says a word.

Right on cue, "Not at all," Severus answers after a half-skip of a beat, "I'm simply pointing out a bit of social mingling would not be adverse, especially with a man who could write more popular books that, in turn, _could_  be turned into movies, which require actors."

" _Of course_."

In the minute before the end of break and his resumption in the next following scenes, Tom makes his decision. It's not that some part of him has settled and resolved, or that he's overcome by a wave of possessiveness and jealousy, or anything of the sort that usually motivates making a choice. No, Tom is just tired. He's tired of doubting, he's tired of being completely out of his usual character—composed, calm, assessing in a view not void of emotion but free of high-strung anxiety.

_Sort of like Emrys._

Besides, hesitation is  _not_  efficient. Caution is efficient. Care is efficient. Prior planning is  _efficient_. But to pause, unexpectedly, distractedly, in a caught-off-guard manner, is  _not_  efficient and in that concept, Tom finds scolding himself is easier than he would've thought.

He knows Evan well enough that, in the light of their real life identities, his partner would not shy away in the least. Evan is not the type to throw everything away with a single revelation. He is not the type to say something one day, and deny it the next.

Evan is strong of will. Tom knows that, because it reflects in his characters. Only someone strong could accept the flaws that  _come_  with that strength.

Again, it's not like he had an epiphany. It's not like he suddenly  _understood_  a new concept. Tom just turns his head slightly, to look back with the corner of his eye—

_In a coffee shop. At table number twelve. At a man, with the color of a story-telling jade in his irises and a penchant for biting his lip when he's nervous or excited. Who shared a spot with him, and whispers his name in a cautious greeting and goodbye all at the same time._

_They won't meet again, Tom is sure. They won't, but he's one less stranger in the world, and as insignificant as that seems, it's not, because the man is Harry Potter._

—and looks at the situation like he looks at  _any_  situation. The answer is sitting there, as it always had been, waiting patiently for Tom to accept it. So he does.

* * *

**T** om manages to catch  _Harry_  after the filming finishes and everyone's packing up to head out. He waves Severus to go ahead— _wait in the car_ , his hand signal says—and the two men exchange pleasantries for a few minutes before Tom believes he's built it up long enough, and idly wonders how long his partner will be rendered speechless after this.

"Well it's not like it's that bad. You do it as Evan all the time." Tom doesn't know  _how_  he's able to say that so naturally, but he does and it's probably all thanks to his career as an actor. It's one hurdle over, and another to go—

Harry rolls his eyes.  _So_ that's  _the expression he makes every time…_  "Marvolo, I do a billion things as Evan. Does  _that_  make it okay to, say, sabotage a royal arms' ship, or overthrow a peaceful overlord who refuses to go to war?"

Tom lets the question sit between them for a few seconds, watching as his partner's facial expression change ten times a second. It's the slow shift in his jaw muscles, the furrowing of his brow, the glint of an overwhelming realization crashing down like a rampaging  _waterfall_ —

And at that exact moment, he decides to answer. "This and that are two different things," he says casually, the line familiar but not usually spoken aloud, "but you're using different examples this time. That's a plus. I was expecting a comment about ravishing a thief in a dark alley as the Minister of the parish."

"Wha—wait—you— _no!_ "

Tom blinks. "No? Then were you thinking about that time when we—"

"No! I mean—you  _can't_  be—but you just  _said_ —you were doing this on purpose, you prat!"

"Excuse me?"

Harry waves his hands about wildly, and he's sure the remaining cast members are looking at them now. "I swear I spent these last four weeks wracking my brain to figure out why you were so familiar! Don't tell me you  _knew_  the whole time! Damn it!"

"You need to be clear on what you want me to say to you."

His partner wrinkles his nose. Tom finds it adorable in an absurd  _I shouldn't be thinking that_  sort of way. Then he says,  _perfectly,_  "Who am I?"

"Most recently?" Tom asks only because it's exactly what he wants to say, at exactly the right time, in exactly the same innocent mockery that's so familiar between them, "My darling wife, of course—though you insist it's only by papers—useful for hiding from the state, considering your actual gender. The only downside is that you don't share the loving sentiment I wish you did as my spouse. Doesn't ForeverYoung make the  _best_  RPs ever?" The sarcastic glee at the end is only the finishing touch.

Harry considers his next words carefully. "How long have you known?"

"First day," Tom shrugs.

"And you didn't  _tell me_?"

"I wanted to see if you'd figure it out."

"How was I supposed to do  _that_?!"  _In retrospect, he has a good point_ …

Harry groans helplessly and buries his face in his hands when it's obvious Tom's not going to answer. He seems to be debating over what to say—or, to say anything at all—and Tom wants to savor the moment more than anything. Reading  _how_  Evan is completely caught off guard is different from seeing it, and he thinks that  _both_  types of reactions—that of on-screen and off—are worth the effort.

"Wait a second—you're William Ferrin!"

 _Oh._   _So that's what took so long to sink in._  "Yes," Tom confirms with no little amount of amusement. "I am."

"Oh  _God_ … you must've been laughing at me the whole time we were chatting!"

"Only about half the time," he reassures, "The rest I was completely in awe of your skill and finesse."

It's such an obvious jab that Harry can't ignore it. " _Marvolo!_ " he clicks his tongue and raises the pitch of his voice, but it's still a bit too low to be a whine, and Harry probably meant it as a reprimand anyway.

Tom at least has the grace to feel  _bad_  about it afterward. "Apologies. You're just too easy to tease, Evan. Start over?"

"Fair enough. Nice to meet you, Marvolo. I'm Harry Potter."

"Tom Riddle."

There's a pause in which they shake hands, but then Harry reels back and points an accusing finger at him. "Aha! You're the stranger from the coffee shop!"

"…What?"

"We shared a table because it was packed that day! Remember?"

"…No. When was this?"

"A couple of years ago—"

Tom blinks. "How do you even  _remember_  that then?"

His partner shrugs sheepishly. "Well, the day after I got the inspiration for the book… and then I sorta based Emrys' appearance on—"

"Wait. Then how come you didn't recognize me sooner?"

"Well It's not like I got a good look or anything!" Harry defends.

It's a minute more of their bickering, so natural and familiar, before they both break into laughter at the absurdity of the situation. Tom's laugh is more of a chuckle, lips restrained, but Harry is free with it. He beams, words unspoken but written all over his expression, bringing Tom to a concluding thought of  _yes, this is how it's supposed to be. This is how it's_ going _to be._

And as the world around them is shed away to its barest form, when society and order fade into the unassuming background, when the very unsavories of human nature in and of itself are forgotten, left on the side of the road as a pile of dirty rags—when, perhaps, their relationship and all of the others dangling from as well as supporting it are stripped away, stripped down to easily ignored simplicity, stripped to forsake complexities and all other dreary components of life,  _no_ , stripped down to but the sum of  _words_ —

_…_

_A smile. "Are you from here?" the stranger asked, "it's obvious you're not a native."_

_"It's forbidden grounds you're trespassing on," Marvolo sneered. "State your name and business."_

_"Goodbye forever," Evan whispered._

_"A hello is only as brief as you make it," Marvolo muttered, "and a farewell just the same."_

_And they are two entities so entwined, so ensnared by the other's soul that even in a universe where they are fated to be each other's ends, to be the whisper of Death and the bringer of fate, the servant of Red and the vassal of Green—that it is entirely probable and too entirely predictable when they meet eyes across the battlefield._

_"It's Marvolo. Better not wear it out, fool."_

_"I'm not sure what my name is, but they call me Evan around here. That counts for something, right?"_

"Nice to meet you."

_…_

—the purest, most genuine perspicuity leaves only the unfaltering truth in both what is said and unsaid: a minute of sincere ecstasy cradled in the lie of a secret. Harry's smile says all this and more. Tom revels in how it's no longer whispered on the staccato beats of keyboard keys and the solid, deeper pitch of a spacebar.

And he can't help but think that it's a shame that they're not in love, because now would be a perfect time to kiss or something equally cliché; the climax of a cheesy romance movie, captivating in only the way moments like those just  _are_. But with Harry's lips curved like that, in a grin that really should be illegal to see, never mind  _use,_ Tom thinks that it's okay.

That it's fine, even if they're not head over heels in love.

And he leaves it kind of perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! Thanks for coming along on the ride C:


End file.
